


Lady of Mercy

by AuditoryCheesecake



Series: A Cheesecake's Tumblr Shorts [22]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: A Little Angtsy, A little fluffy, Divine Victoria - Freeform, Established Relationship, F/M, Viscount Varric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 21:22:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8463382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuditoryCheesecake/pseuds/AuditoryCheesecake
Summary: The Viscount of Kirkwall wakes beside the Divine. Varric's not supposed to be in Cassandra's rooms.





	

She is like the Lady.

�He thinks this often. When he sees her from afar, tall, regal and draped in white and red. When they cross paths in their official capacities, Viscount and Divine. When she smiles at him across a room, across a table, and his blood burns like Andraste’s pyre.

He has always been devout, and he’s always been given to blasphemy. She’d asked, at the beginning, if this would change anything between them. It would, he’d said. He might ask her to wear the hat in bed.

She’s never done that, but there have been other things that have felt far more transgresive, far more dangerous.

Like this. Waking beside her on white silk sheets, beneath red blankets. Everything here is white or red or gold, except for the dark spill of her hair across the pillows, and her eyes slowly opening to meet his own.

She draws him close and kisses him softly. After so many years, perhaps it shouldn’t surprise him that she can be soft. The lines around her eyes, the rest of her body– no longer that of a warrior, still that of a woman– and her lips against his own.

There is a knock at the door, quiet, but they have been quiet as well. She freezes against him, and he scrambles out from under the soft blankets, rolls under the bed with the dust and the cobwebs, hidden by the trailing golden skirt.

People may suspect, but they can never _know_.

The attendant approaches respectfully, places a tray on the nightstand– it will be ice water and toast, with a single pat of butter and a bowl of fresh fruit. She has not changed so much, over the years. He listens to a soft recitation of the day’s schedule, which he already knows. He’s planned to be near her when he can be, before his ship leaves on the afternoon tide.

He feels like a child, hiding under the bed like this; like a thief.

The attendant bows herself out, and he waits for a slow count of five after the door clicks shut. Then he crawls out from under the bed, brushing dust from his hair.

He slaps on a smile when he sees she looks concerned. “Not too good for my knees, that,” he says jovially, and climbs back onto the bed.

She frowns despite his joke, and the moment balances on a knife’s edge. The mood’s about to fall, but which way?

They are who they’ve always been, a little angry at themselves, at each other, at the world. A little passionate, a little volatile. They are both very good at finding soft spots.

Now, naked and dusty, chill Orlesian air drifting through the window and her sharp eyes on him, Varric feels like he’s nothing but soft spots. What will it be this time? His lack of dignity, or his foolishness in staying? His foolishness in loving her, maybe? That was a favorite for a while, though he’d kissed and swore and professed it away. Perhaps it’s due for a resurgence. The worst fights are the ones where it’s not the other that they’re blaming.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and that halts all his thoughts like a nug hitting a stone wall. He can count on one hand all the times she’s apologized to him, and each one was a hard-won victory.

She reaches out, her thumb brushing at some smudge of dirt on his face. She looks sad, the blankets bunched over her knees, her chest bared. There’s a scar across her stomach, and it’s not better to stare at that, but he can’t meet her eyes.

“You deserve more than this.” Her hand feels too gentle. At times it’s been a brand, a promise, a benediction. Now it’s something terrible and soft, something he can’t put a name to.

The impossible appeals to him because it is impossible. A life of saying goodbye is a sad one, but there’s always been another goodbye to anticipate. You can’t return to a place you haven’t left.

“You don’t deserve to be hiding under beds and skulking in corners. You should have something stable, something real.”

How is this not real, he wants to ask. He swore an oath before the Maker. He never told her, but he’d done it. “Seeker, you must have noticed by now I’m an old man. I wouldn’t know where to start with stability.” _This_ is stable. She is always waiting, he is always returning.

Only because he’s always left her behind first. He’s always thought that she was the one who deserved better.

He covers her hand with his own, forces himself to meet her gaze. Every time, it’s like looking at Andraste herself.

The Lady is merciful. Cassandra does her best.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! <3 Come say hi [on tumblr!](http://acheesecakewrites.tumblr.com)


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